Illegal Acts
by needsmoreicing
Summary: She has a love/hate relationship with the yellow smiley face on his wall. She hates it because at three years old, Molly could have done better work. But she loves it because she knows something that he might never remember. (Sherlolly: Before, During, and After TRB) [For Morbidbydefault]


A/N: For Morbidbydefault (Morbidmegz)

* * *

She was almost finished, her nose sniffling beneath the lip of her turtleneck, her eyes tired from the strain of trying to see by the dull lamp light. But it was going to be worth it, her best piece yet, the one that would make her place in history. Her head felt light, and she was absolutely sure that it was from the fumes, but tried to pass it off as adrenaline. Four years in and she'd still never had a scare of being caught.

A light sweep of her arm later, and she took a few stumbling steps backwards, looking in awe of her work. Even in the tunnel of the bridge, she could still see the brightly colored flowers and sweeping angles of the field. So beautiful, so life like that if she stared too long, Molly was sure that she would walk right into her painting and live there. It would be beautiful there, Molly knew, and her father would be there too. But she tucked the can of paint inside of her equipment bag and picked up her lanter, tugging on her hood as she went to her bike. It was all in her head anyway, she'd have to go back to the real world come morning.

But then she heard it, a low groan from behind her and Molly's heart set into overdrive. Though her head was screaming at her to run, her feet slowly turned to the noise, a tall lanky man stumbling through the darkness towards her and her lantern. He stumbled and his hand lashed out towards the wall to balance himself, but the paint was still wet and he slid forward, landing in a crumpled heap. Molly's eyes darted to the the hand print that dragged down the wall and felt a rush of anger, but a chill swept through her when she realized he wasn't moving.

Her feet carried her quickly over to him, Molly's training kicking into high gear as she checked his pulse, even as his feeble breathing told her what she could already figure out. _Drugs._

A little bit more in a panic, Molly tried to speak to him, to get him to say anything as she hurriedly combed her fingers through his hair trying to get any reaction. She only got a lazy opening of his piercing blue eyes before they shut again. Molly tossed her light aside as she fumbled through his pockets, digging out a sleek mobile and searching his contacts. Several missed calls from one unsaved number and only one phone called made to another unsaved number. How many times had she ignored phone calls when she was doing what her father woudn't deem acceptable? So she dialed the number.

"Sherlock, I have been trying to get a hold of you al-"

"Please, he needs help!" Molly cried to the voice.

"Who is this? Where are you?" The voice on the other end of the mobile sounded angry and concerned.

"Molly, Molly Hooper. We're near the Oxford Circus line. I- I don't remember the street, I ca-can't leave him!" She said hurriedly, trying to appease the man.

"Stay with him, put the phone on the ground and stay with him." And Molly did what the voice instructed.

"Sherlock?" The man groaned again, labored and heavy. "I've got you. I've got you." Molly muttered cradling the man in her arms, running her fingers through his sweat drenched hair, and checking his pulse for what seemed like hours. A beam of light shown down the tunnel and she found that she and the man were being tucked into a sleek black car.

"Where are the medics?" Molly demanded as the man in her arms started to chill. "He needs help! Why is nothing being done?"

The driver ignored her until they reached a large house. The man, Sherlock, was taken from her as they were both hauled inside, leaving her to pace in the hallway. There was no panic from inside the room, so she knew he'd been stabilized, but that didn't keep her from incessantly wearing a hole in the carpet. Finally the door opened and a sharp looking man stood before her.

"Molly Hooper." It was not a question, she realized, biting her nails to the skin as he looked at her disdainfully.

"Dr. Hooper." Molly corrected. "I've only got my residency left." The man raised an eyebrow, but did not comment on her correction.

"Yes, well we have your belongings. You may leave."

Molly stiffened at her dismissal.

"Absolutely not." Another eyebrow raise at her expense. "I was the last thing he saw, I'm going to be the first thing when he wakes up. I need to make sure he's okay. After that, I- I don't care."

His facial expression did not change, but she could see his surprise in those beady eyes. "Just because he's safe now, doesn't mean he'll make it. I want to at least make sure he wakes up once."

The man opened the door quietly and she gave a nod as she slipped in. Molly didn't take in the details of the room as she pulled up a chair. She couldn't see another person die, not again. If they came to her dead, she never had to see them alive or the people that came with them. But she'd heard him breathe, seen his ghostly white skin, trembled under the gaze of his caregivers. But even surrounded by these people, he still seemed so alone and out of place. Taking his hand in hers, Molly squeezed it gently. Maybe if he saw her once he woke up, died after she'd left him, then she feels like maybe he would know that he hadn't died alone.

Molly sniffled and rubbed her sleep deprived eyes. She knew it didn't make sense. None of this made any sense, so she just stopped trying.

She waited sixteen hours for blue eyes to open. They glanced over her, softening and then sharpening, analyzing her, and deciding that he must have liked what he saw, closing his eyes once again before drifting back into unconsciousness.

True to her word, Molly left the room after his brief bout of consciousness and found her things waiting at the end of the hall. The doorman handed her her bag, which rattled with cans of paint and metal as she wheeled her bike through the open door and bounced down the streets.

She had to ask for directions twice before her bike finally reached St. Barts.

* * *

"Oi, Molly! Did you hear? That crazy painter struck again."


End file.
